On the Discovery (?) channel last night, they were talking about planets and dark matter. Wish I could recal exactly how they put it. I was fooling around with Sims 3 and not paying that close attention.

They said that all matter appears to be contained within matrices of dark matter. They sounded surprised about this. Maybe triumphant? Not sure. But this arrangement of dark matter around regular matter makes perfect sense to me.

My interpretation of dark matter is that its not dark so much as invisible. Yet it has definite effects on visible matter. It’s like the blades of a fan being invisible when its running. It does have physical affects, however, not the least of which is the fact that you will get urt if you stick your hand betweent those invisible blades.

I’ve learned that I can see a particular blade if I follow the impression of motion with my eyes. I thereby focus in on a single blade which then appears to be moving in slow motion while everything around it blurs except for the relatively motionless brass engine housing of the fan.

By this anology, I envision dark matter as simply higher frequency matter.Our bodies, for instance are just the tip of the ice-berg as it were. We are really so much more.

Maybe you feel this too when you see a body whose occupant has flown. The shell that is buried is nothing compared to its former occupant, the part now free that we cannot see. Well, not here, anyway, unless, somehow, your eyes can follow its motion and focus in.

Back in Iran, I was sitting in the back seat of my bother-law’s car with my sister-in-law and their kids while driving the wending roada through the foot-hills of the Alboraz mountains south of Teheran. I understood Farci at that time but wasn’t speaking it very much so people tended to talk around me as though I couldn’t understand them.

Something about… communication that you probably don’t remember from your babyhood, is that it’s psychic in the beginning. Don’t know if this applies in language courses later, but you sure rely on it heavily when first realize you need to learn the language spoken around you in order for THEM to understand YOU. Being in such a situation then at 19, my psychic abilities were alive and well. Had been since high school for different reasons, but still… So I not only understood many of the things they said because I’d quietly learned the words as stated above, but I could also read a fair share of what went between them.

We’re driving up to my in-law’s cabin to spend a few days and the guys are just chit-chatting about mundane stuff up front, a bit about the war front and about the village the cabin was in. Then it was about U.S. space program of all things. There was a touch of bad-natured envy about it and my brother in laws suddenly said to me in English, “Omrika wastes its efforts sending rockets to the moon. Iran with rockets would have MUCH better use for them.” Something like that.

I agreed with him that sending rockets to the moon was a waste and gamely suggested that using gravity rapels would achieve a more efficient form of space travel. That was just me acting properly oblivious. I mean, yeah, I do think that, but I was ignoring the fact that I knew he was talking about missiles.

They laughed at that, went around another long curve between two tall hills, and fell abruptly silent. Hurricane fencing topped with constatina wire came into sight. The car had stopped, a soldier was walking toward us, and I just couldn’t resist a little jibe at the men: “So this is where you keep your missles?”

“Peeshee!” Reza snapped at me, “Be quiet!”

The soldier had stopped at our car. He peered in at us all and then waved us on.

I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was indeed a missile base we were passing and that the men desperately wanted to brag about it to me, the only American present, but didn’t dare.

Okay, so here’s what’s bugging me about this memory:

After we got back to Teheran a few days later, I wrote a letter to my paternal grandmother to tell her about the trip and the missile base we’d passed… and I wrote her the longetude and lattitude of it.

How the hell did I even know that? This was pre-Army for me. I hadn’t gone through any compass course yet, though I’d done some map plotting previously having to do with paranormal event patterns. But for the life of me, I can’t remember how I got the coordinates of that base, only that I definitely had them and wrote them, begging my grandmother to tell the right people because even then – maybe especially so – I was alarmed at the prospect of an Iran with long range missiles.

Anyway, my grandmother got the letter, but not the coordinates. She complained to me in her reply that 2 or 3 pages of my letter had been redacted with black permanent marker.

I told Reza about it, not mentioning what might have been covered up, and he said, “Oh, they must have done it at Kennedy Airport. Iran doesn’t censor mail.”

Of course Iran censors mail. I know that now. At the time, though, I still believed in Reza. And he was SUCH a liar extraordinaire.

I just want to know how I learned those coordinately though. I can’t recall that one important detail no matter how hard I wrack my brain. Gah. I need some regressive hypnosis or something. It bugs me not knowing.

Is it just me, or is legalizing illegal immigration some kind of weird oxymoran?

I couldn’t get citizenship for my Iranian born son even though I was born and still am an American citizen. He was past the age of sponsorship by the time I was finally in contact with him but I paid to put through his paperwork anyway, only to be told that he had to go through Special Registration even to get a vis…a to visit since Iran is such a well-known sponsor of terrorism against the U.S. My son’s reaction was one of fury when I told him that so, no, he never did get his citizenship. And now Obama is inviting in thousands of undocumented alien Muslims while refusing sanctuary to Yazidis, Christians, and apostates from Islam. WTF?

Okay, but aren’t undocumented aliens in other countries, Iran among them, arrested and deported if they’re lucky? Why the hell should the U.S. be any different? Being different in this area does NOT necessarily make us better. It might make us foolish in fact.

It seems we have a chimp in the White House. He thought cutting a deal with the terrorist regime of Iran was a good idea too and he expects nothing in return from them, not even a modicrum of good behavior.

Okay, though, all that aside, legal immigration can be a daunting obstacle course for many and there are times when think it would be better if people could move freely throughout the world so long as they behave in accordance with the laws and mores of the countries they move to AND can support themselves therein.

These simple rules should apply:1. respect the flag, the laws, and the people of the nation you’re in. Don’t come here burning our flag, demanding Sharia, or protesting our ways. You do, you get deported. Period.

2. Commit a violent crime (rape, torture, assault, murder) against anyone and you get punished before being deported. You have no reason to expect protection under our laws if you weren’t born here and haven’t sworn your fealty to this nation. You could be dropped from a helicopter into shark infested waters for all I care if you are found to be practicing or even contributing to acts of terrorism.

“Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,With conquering limbs astride from land to land;Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall standA mighty woman with a torch, whose flameIs the imprisoned lightning, and her nameMother of Exiles. From her beacon-handGlows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes commandThe air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

In response to Mohammad cartoon I posted showing a Mohammad in diapers throwing a tantrum over being criticized months ago, I got this response just this morning:

Jalil Al-Hamza: “Right, because Muhammad(saws) was a crybaby, that crybaby brought a religion to mankind and has managed to leave his mark in history as a good, kind and gentle leader, what will your legacy be, immaturity and ignorance. you should be ashamed of yourself, posting this filth.”

Are some Muslims really so clueless about the history of Islam? Egad, this one has surely missed a few things or he is trying very hard to either convince himself or others since Islam makes apostasy a capital offense for those who live under its sway. Or maybe he wasn’t born Muslim and hasn’t yet learned the truth about it.

Mohammad approved the murder of a blind poetess and mother who mocked him in his poetry. Following his example, Muslims have been frequently known to murder mockers of their prophet and “those who insult Islam.”

Usually, mocking or insulting either one means telling the unfortunate truth about them. Muslims obviously can’t handle the truth. It brings their world crashing down because they don’t know how to extricate themselves from the mess that is their religion.

They’re afraid to face it. They’re a bad people if they stick with its genocidal, inhumane, intolerant ways. They’re dead people if they do… but only if they leave under Islam’s sway. If they can escape that, they can be moral, free, AND honest with themselves.

For those in the trap, they are taught that Muhammad was “good, kind, and gentle” and that if they ever deny or question that, they will be executed. Also, that he was the “best example to follow.”

Yeah. Nevermind he was a lying, raping, torturing, enslaving, intolerant, cruel, pedophilic, and genocidal maniac. Just ignore the man behind the curtain. Right.

Hejolat be’kish. Be ashamed of yourself if you follow this monster. ISIS follows him to the letter. What kind of person loves ISIS? No one but psychos and purely evil demonic types. Think about it and flee Islam before it takes you down with it.

I came across some intriguing pictures of ooparts (out of place artifacts) and have been toying with explanations for them.

Some of them could be relatively modern objects that were caught in flowstone, silt, or other soluble mineral flows and concreted within. Some of these concretions would have resulted in agates. How would you go about dating something like that? I don’t think carbon 14 dating would be accurate enough for the stone. What about the artifact?

In one case, it was a hamer identical to those used by Californian miners in the 1900s. Carbon 14 dating put its age as somewhere between present and 700 years old. Very useful. NOT.

Some of the objects were caught in quartz crystal formations. Could the crystal have formed around them in a relatively short time?

This one I’d like to experiment with. The local Michael’s craft store has crystal growing kits.

About 25 years ago, I had a series of dreams about a small crystal sphere, colorless, that had a ruby heart embedded in it and special properties having to do with the recording of certain knowledge. I asked a jeweler friend if he could replicate it and he told me it would require a nuclear oven, which was his polite way of saying, “Oh hell no!”

But what if I had a cut glass/crystal/ruby heart and just grew the crystal around it? I wonder if I could do that? And what’s a nuclear oven other than the heart of star? Is there such a thing on earth?

The objects found in coal strata is less easy to explain away. Coal strata was once-upon a time, lake bottoms or flooded forests. Coal is formed when peat is pressurized over a long period of time, sinking and heating as more of the sedimentary materials that formed the peat pile on top of it. Some of these coal strata where ooparts are found are Cretaceous (100 million years ago) or Permian (298 to 252 million years ago) period formations. This predates the so-called age of humankind yet includes such things as beautifully made bells and vases of unknown metal alloys, miscellaneous tools, cog-wheel machine parts, human bare foot and shoe prints beside those of dinosaurs, the mysterious bones of human species other than those we know, and, my favorite, a delicate gold chain.

Same for limestone and sandstone.

I’m no mineralogist, as I’m sure is obvious to anyone who is, but stuff like this makes me wonder, among other things, if there are some really big things we don’t know about geology; like maybe we’ve all been misled to some degree. It is, after all, a verifiable fact that when science officially adopts a theory for something and it’s provable MOST of the time, that scientists dislike looking too carefully at anything that upsets their apple cart so to speak. So contradictory evidence is ignored. For instance, what if rock types thought to take millions, even billions, of years to form really took a LOT less, but only under certain circumstances we don’t really know about?

This 100-year-old Swiss watch ring that was found in a theretofore sealed 400-year-old chinese tomb is a little more baffling. See picture. When the tomb was opened and the coffin was being moved, it fell out of the wrapping around the coffin, crusted with dirt and crime. General consensus, by others, not just me, is that it must have been left by a time traveller in the funeral party 400 years ago.

Side note on this one: I purposely tried to find a debunking of the Swiss watch find this morning. My husband Jeb pointed out that if it was a Swiss watch and likely a limited edition since watch rings are rare, it would surely have a serial number on it linking it to who originally purchased it. Finding the owner would mean finding with the time-traveller or the hoaxter. Good point. I hoped someone had thought of and did that. Apparently, no one had. Yet all the debunkers of the story had to say about the story was that no one had ever verified it was real.

Bah. I’ve come across many incidents of people in possession of ooparts they’d found offering them up for examination by any scientist that wanted to but had no takers. No one wanted to even consider something that when against their science as they knew it.

Meh. Religions tend not to like considering ideas that contest them either. That’s what it has in common with established science. Both can change over time, but only through the insistence of the bold, brave, and slightly crazy.

Ha. Time again. Even when I’m bad at it, often unaware even, nearly everything in my life is still organized according to time.

I believe time travel is possible. They did stuff like that at Fort Hero in Montauk, NY back in the 70s. Even if I didn’t know anything about what happened at Montauk and, of course, the WWII era Project Rainbow (aka The Philadelphia Experiment), I’d still believe it just because I want to, I think the mind really has very few limits, and because I also believe that where there’s a will, there’s a way. Much of what we accomplish starts with our imagining of it and me? I’m kind of imaginative.

Also, a lot of the ethereal contacts I’ve read of over the years have insisted that time as we know it is an illusion. That everything really happens at once. It’s only our focus that makes it appear chronological and separates so-called “time periods” from one another in our perception. Okay, I got that message loud and clear, but I’m not so sure I understand it. I accept this is probably true in some form or another, but just don’t know how to sort it into my reality. Could one time line or period possibly bleed over into another, not just what our perception would call “forwards” but “backwards” as well? Is there such a thing as time storms, as I once say this idea referred to in a book, where electro-magnetic anomalies cause such to happen?

Some of the tools found embedded and/or fossilized in strata millions of years old appears identical to those used in our own recent past. Again, maybe our understanding of rock formation is faulty, or maybe human kind is MUCH older than scientists think it is (something they’ve begun acknowledging as possible in recent years) and that other humans have arisen and fallen long before our particular era of mankind came into being.

Since I’ve been a kid, I’ve always believed that time has currents and cycles to it such that the same circumstances arise over and over again on a clockwork basis and only our reaction to it sometimes changes. Are we possibly treading a path that has already been well trodden millions of years before our ken?

I’m not going to go Georgio Tsoukalos here and suggest that modern finds in ancient strata can only be the result of ancient aliens. I love his enthusiasm and I do agree with him that we’ve probably been much visited over the centuries, but I also think the earth is old enough for many human civilizations to have arisen to our level and even far above many times over the history of our planet. Aliens may have had a impact in that, but they don’t get all the credit.

“There are more things in heaven earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” — Hamlet (1.5.167-8), Hamlet to Horatio, from the works of William Shakespeare.

Never rule out the impossible. It may only seem so at the moment and later prove otherwise.

I got banned from commenting or posting on Facebook because I responded to a post about how Muslims were treating non-Muslims in Europe by saying that non-Muslims should, by rights treat them exactly the same way. You know: burning their places of worship, harassing them on the street for how they’re dressed, burning their flags, calling for the death of Islam. Nothing different from how they’ve been treating non-Muslims. Nothing. Just the same.

Apparently, this was a frightening prospect to Muslims. And it SHOULD be! No human should treat another human being that way. If they do, it’s only fair that they be unceremoniously kicked out of the human race, just like the Nazis were. So why don’t they stop? Do they WANT this to happen to them?

Meh. The rational ones among them need to deal with their own murderous, raping, intolerant, hateful psychos or the rest of the world will be forced to deal with them in self defense, including those who quietly enable them. Is that really too big a truth for anyone, any Muslims in particular, to acknowledge?

Oh well, I was getting a little tired of posting on Facebook anyway. I like reading there sometimes, but it’s not worth posting there when so few ever read my posts anyway unless they are extremely trite or silly. I was starving for real conversation and I wasn’t finding much there with my Indian friend being one of the extremely rare exceptions… but we’re in different time zones though so it isn’t all that easy.

I’m really bored with life right now. It seems like I have neither time nor energy and scant companionship for all the things I really loved to do up until about 10 years ago: skating, hiking, long walks, swimming, water slides, carnival rides, even dancing. I remember liking to do these things; I’m excited at every rare opportunity that arises for them; and then, when I get there, I just don’t feel like. Watching seems better.

I still like to dance but other than belly dancing, there’s not much opportunity and I run out of energy a lot quicker than I used to. Besides, I’m a bit self-conscious about being the old fat lady shaking her booty out on the dance floor and then running out of breath. LOL

Is this what it means to grow old? I need to think of new things to do now but what? I’m mean, yeah, there’s always Sims, but it’s so solitary directing their fake lives while my own does little at all except for for watching out for danger from the encroaching barbarian horde… and that’s kind of depressing. I need diversion from that sometimes.

I’m driving through the countryside of Machias, summer fields and trees and mountains flowing past me as if in slow motion, farm houses and trailers, far apart, like staccato images of falseness against an otherwise natural landscape.

I’m lost in a driver’s trance, more aborbing what I see than actually looking at it. Quiet in my thoughts.

My grandparent’s old farm, the first they live on when they moved to Washington, is here somewhere. I found it before recently. It wasn’t much changed. I want to see it again, but it’s not the purpose of sojourne here. I’m looking for an old stone house my realator cousin Brenda told me about. I’ve always wanted to live in a cute little stone cottage in the countryside between field and forest.

I don’t see it and I don’t see my grandparent’s old farm either. No. Instead, I see a kitten beside the road. I must have been driving slowly at that moment to even notice. But there it is, a fluffy blue-eyed white one, waif like, at the top of a deep, round, circular gravel turnout with apparently nothing more than fog and forest beyond it.

The fog is a little odd. It’s hot and dry outside. Yet I barely notice this at the time.

A split second glimpse of kitten on a stretch of road with narry a house or barn in sight and all I can think about is what a nice light snack that poor little thing, obviously abandoned, would make for any passing coyote or cougar.

A cougar once ate one of my grandmother’s little poodles.

I turn in so fast that the gravel kicks up in a cloud of dust and my tires squeal in protest.

I get out the car and sway on my feet, overcome with a moment’s vertigo. The dust is carried away in swift light breezes, but the kitten is no more to be seen. I wander about the turnout confused that I could have seen the kitten in the first place – like maybe it was just an illusion created by light and shadow – and worried that maybe it wasn’t but I’d scared it away.

I step off the gravel toward the fog and the forest on the edge where I thought I’d seen the kitten and am startled at the sudden downslope of the grassy verge. It’s like the bank of a stream, so much so that I stop and do a double-take.

The fog has cleared from the edge a little and I do, indeed, appear to be looking down into clear water at the very house Brenda had told me about. The slope is abrupt enough here that even though the house is maybe 15 feet away, it’s fully beneath the mist, which is ground-level to the turnout.

I see “appear” because even though it gives an impression of being clear water, there’s nothing but warm air swirling around my feet as I step downslope toward the house.

The air is very swirly here, the currents flowing round my body in a way both magical and eery.

The house strikes me as very old but still beautiful in a rustic way. It may even have been built before the advent of electricity, but, unlike another old house Brenda once drove me and my husband Jeb to, this one had intact looking windows, door, walls, and roof. Kind of important that. Wiring and plumbing isn’t too big a deal if only the house is worth the touble and this one looked like it might be. It looked like something out of a fairy-tale.

The steeply sloped slate roof was covered in thick moss and ferns. A huge chimney decked in morning glories climbed one side of the cottage. There were deep porches with thick timber colums, dark with age, upholding the overhangs, a hanging glider in the front, two old rocking chairs in the back, both covered with the forest detritus that had floated in over many autumn’s past.

I tried to peer through the windows but curtain blocked some and the interior was too dark to see much through the others. Frustrated, I tried the front door. It was locked of course. So was the screened back.

Fishing my cell phone out of my purse, I punched in Brenda’s number and told her, “I found that stone house you told me about. Can you come and meet me here with Jeb?” Look for my car, because the house isn’t visible from the road. It’s downslope from the gravel turnout in front of it.” I described the spot as well as I could.

She only knew the road it was on. She hadn’t seen the house herself before. I’d beat her to it. But she was still the one with the key.

She promised to collect up Jeb and come out right away.

I brush the leaves off the glider and sit there swinging a while, old chains creaking, remember the kitten and stop. I was so certain I’d seen it there!

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty…” I call out softly, clear my throat, and try it in a more normal tone of voice. “Here kitty, kitty, kitten cat….”

I listen, hear nothing but birdsong, wind soughing through the grass and trees, and… is that rushing water…?

I rise and walk away from the porch to the right of the house where there’s a thick patch of Japanese rag weed and tall bright green ferns blocking my view into the forest, but the rushing water sound seems to be coming from that direction.

I pace it slowly, looking for an opening, and finally find it. Not just an opening, a path paved in limestone piercing the weedy green thicket. Now the rushing water is roaring full throttle yet still I think I hear a sound beneath it, the abruptly loud “Mew!” of a tiny kitten down there somewhere.

I knew it would take Jeb and Brenda at least a half hour, maybe more, to get out here, so I figured it would do no harm if I explored a little while waiting. Maybe I could find that kitten.

I followed the curve of the path through the greenery and a good fresh coolness came sweept over me as the vista of a deep river gorge opened up. The path skirted its high leftward edge as if pushed there by thickly crowded tall pines pine forest beside it.

Beyond the surface of the clear bright waters far below, great stone walls climbed skyward to lose themselves in the fog. Moss and delicate ferns is only decor but for the ocasional old tree trunk that had fallen headfirst from above straight into the glassy waters of the river. Those and the waterfalls.

The waterfalls were everywhere, I noticed, as I stood there, astonished, taking it all in. Streamers of white water roaring straight down, trickles of crystalline pure beauty trickling down from one rock ledge and crevice to the next, huge curtains of water sluicing down over broad faces of rock. I was slowest to notice that last. The flow there was so clear and smooth it was like the water flowing down the sides of an overflowing glass, almost invisible at first glance.

Standing there transfixed, I hear the sound underneath of tires on gravel without really paying it mind. No. I’m shaken from my reverie only from the familiar voices calling out my name.

I turn reluctantly and go back up the path toward the house. Brenda, Jeb, and my daughter Amy are there looking for me. Seeing them and they me, I just stop where I am and, grinning at them, wave them excitedly toward me. “You’ve got to see this!” I shout at them.

They come running to see and I lead them down the path, pleased to hear their gasps of awe of the vista opens up before them.

“What about the house?” Brenda asks a very long moment after.

“We can look at it later,” I say. “Let’s see where this path goes first?” I plead.

Jeb’s a pushover where Amy is concerened. That’s all it takes to get past his initial resistance. This, despite the dangerous look of the path going right to the edge of the steep gorge, a bit crumbly in some places and way too polished looking in others.

Brenda just sighs in resignation and comes along. She too might be more than a little tempted by the beautiful adventure of it all.

Soon, they’re all walking ahead of me while I trail reverently behind, aware of being in a very sacred place. Their voices, chatting and laughing, reach me in echoes and bits, words indistinct. I can’t get enough of those myriad waterfalls! So beautiful!

And then I notice a couple of things:

The water is flowing in down the entire surface of the gorge wall I can see, parted only by the moss, the ferns, and the logs… and those look in danger of being swept along for the ride. Is the gorge being completely inundated? Where is all that water coming from? Surely it’s not from a single river or even two or three. It’s more like if a great chunk of land had sunk beneath a huge lake and so the lake waters were rushing in to fill the gap.

The mist above suddenly strikes me as like looking up at the surface of water from somewhere deep beneath it. The sunlight filtering through it looks water, apearing to ripple and dance over rocks and path, the gorge, the trees, and me.

Feeling under water, I struggle with a burst of panic, before being suddenly distracted by a mewing sound again; a chorus of mews.

I stop and look around again and there they are: not just the white kitten, but a fluffy orange one and a black one as well. They come running to me from the bushes and I scoop them all up, hugging them close.

Their mews are now mixed with purrs but I can tell they’ve been starving. Their eyes are runny, their furry little bodies dusty and emaciated, their meows loud and extremely demanding now.

And that’s the most I can remember now. Hopefully I’ll dream a part two! Jeb chose then to wake me up and it felt like struggling to swim back to the surface of wakefulness. I really didn’t want to leave the kittens or this eerily beautiful place. I wanted to feed the kittens and also to see what was further down the path.